


blind .

by imyisgreat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, blind!Crowley, crowley is blind, platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imyisgreat/pseuds/imyisgreat
Summary: crowley is a snake, and that runs more deeply than azirpahale could ever knowthis is my first time writing anything like this so here u go . its quite painfully short and i didnt delve so deeply into emotions as i had hoped, but this is good as a first try .





	blind .

Crowley couldn’t see. He had never been able to 'see’, by the age-old definition, and this became incredibly apparent to the demon following his exchange of corporeal forms with Aziraphale.  
As he began to feel the divinity permeate his wearied bones, and as he was wrenched from his body into the softer form of the angel, Crowley’s (Aziraphale’s) eyes were bombarded by a cacophony of light and colour, screaming at his pathetically human consciousness to recognise them for what they were.  
Crowley was confused to say the least - had he summoned the bravery to do so, he would’ve even described the rush of new information as terrifying, overwhelming, utterly new.  
Why had no one told him about this before?  
Of course, they weren’t to know. Crowley himself wasn’t even aware until, say, thirteen seconds previous.  
Thrust into a world of heavenly light, the demon’s eyes began to water profusely. The pair were reclined on a (quite purposefully) hard sofa in Crowley’s flat, their fingers intertwined. Focusing on a particularly bright wall, Crowley reached into the depths of Aziraphale’s 6000-year-old brain to find comparison.  
Snow, doves, cotton.  
Golf balls, teeth, eggs.  
White! Of course.  
Crowley had known, of course, that over the years some words had been thrown his way that he hadn’t quite understood. Red, blue, yellow, green – they had been merely words to him, ideas with meanings unclear, however figuring them out hadn’t been a priority, it was never a priority.  
He knew, for example, that his wings were black. ‘Black’ to Crowley was evil, cunning, demonic. When lacking the proper meaning for the word he had simply joined the dots, inferring that black meant all things occult and hellish. All things Crowley.  
White on the other hand, was historically a whole different affair. White was happy, warm and soft. It was waking up on a plush sofa to the crackle of the bookshop’s hearth, deep breaths of contentment echoing against walls filled with books. It was the grateful exhale of an angel as a demon finds him and saves him. Again and again and again.  
Aziraphale’s wings were white.  
Looking around the room, Crowley came so see his own eyes within Aziraphale, who was staring worriedly in his general direction. Yellow, like poison (and sunshine and snakes and flowers, supplied Aziraphale’s brain). Knowing they were different, but not precisely in what way, Crowley had covered them with glasses. But looking at them himself, studying their elongated feline pupils, the demon knew precisely why the angel suggested he cover them all those years ago.  
They were the thing of nightmares.  
“Crowley, dear, is everything alright?”, Aziraphale inquired softly, his poorly-concealed panic evident on his face, “I am rather afraid something may have gone wrong in our little experiment, you see, because I cannot see a thing!”  
“Uh, yeah, sorry about that, angel,” Crowley managed, “Can’t really see.”  
Silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken questions and the threat of decidedly un-demonic tears. Their hands found one another’s, and they remained quiet for some time, Crowley absorbing the environment around him, Aziraphale exploring the repercussions of such a confession on his experience of the last 6000 years.  
While in the darkness of Crowley’s skull, the angel wrestled with the sorrow he felt towards his friend, filing away the pity in his brain, ready for processing at a later date.  
Crowley was blind, or at least very close to it. That was certain in Aziraphale’s mind.  
His research into reptilian biology in the nineteenth century finally made itself useful, and the angel remembered that snakes in particular had an unfortunate quality in which their eyesight was less than remarkable.  
How cruel of Her.  
Gripping Crowley tighter, Aziraphale relished in the darkness, for it meant his demon could finally see.


End file.
